picture this: you’re a child and nations are tumbling down around you like dominoes.
your mother tells you it will be okay because your nation is like no other and you think: she’s either naïve, or she’s lying.
(it’s probably the former because she’s much happier than you and you’re a child who has yet to see enough shades of blue.)
this is why she’s wrong:
you’re a child and you don’t learn about the world wars of the twentieth century because you live in a city that predates any and all gods; in the cradle of civilisation, and your history textbooks are full of summarised stories about hundreds of kingdoms that have risen and fallen right here, beneath your feet.
and that is why you’re not naïve:
who is to say that your nation is like no other when the city you live in is still an enigma, built on the ruins of seven cities that shared her name, like the same phoenix burning over and over and rising again and again, in a constant state of death and rebirth? humanity is ephemeral, so its cradle and its deathbed might as well be one and the same.
nations are tumbling down around you like dominoes. they call it spring and you know it’s coming for you, and it arrives before winter dies. it’s the shortest winter you live.
now picture this: you’re a child. flashbacks. nightmares. the name of god can trigger a panic attack.
you skip fridays at school until schools decide to make fridays and sundays weekends, and saturdays are school days stuck in the middle.
(you’re always stuck in the middle. you haven’t seen enough shades of blue but you know it’s better than all the grey.)
(every time a dog barks, you know shells will fall, and every time a bomb goes off, you know the pressure will reach you before the sound, and every explosion is followed immediately by another so the ones who rush in to help are the ones who will die next. you’re just a child, though, and you’ll always be stuck at home, being grey.)
your mother is naïve until she starts listening to you —
she’s upset you spend too much time online because she doesn’t want you to escape but only in your head.
“live with us,” she says, and you know she wants you to stay because there’s a list of names of those who left. (you envy them because your humanity is ephemeral and they’re now immortal, unlike this city and every heartbeat within its walls.)
finally, picture this: picture the loneliness of invisibility and the ache of exhaustion in your lung after you scream for hours. no one sees, and no one hears. no one cares. and sometimes, you’re too tired to care too. can you blame yourself? you’re a child. you’re a child and nations are tumbling around you like dominoes and all you can think is let the whole world burn down. sometimes you’re as naïve as your mother and all you can think is we will rise again. we always do.
picture this: you’re a child. no one cares because people like you are just meant to suffer. only people like you. the world isn’t fair. they will remember you, though, as collateral damage, and they will honour your fleeting presence on this earth by writing movies about the horrible few months their soldiers have spent in your lifeless desert before coming home with flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks triggered by the name of a god they’ll never meet, and wrinkles you don’t know if you’ll live long enough to have.
(it’s okay, you convince yourself.
you want immortality, and sometimes this means you have to die young.
deep down, you know it means you just don’t want to die at all.
and what do you know of death, anyway? you’re just a child and you can’t tell apart grey from blue.)
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 2:25 PM UTC
history isn’t written by victors
because—
history is a treacherous sea, a force of nature once thought to bend to nobody. and as you stand on the sand, basking in history’s sorrow and glory, you’re nobody to the sea, your mother’s voice echoes, begging you to be cautious, to stay within her sight, to glow in the moonlight. the sea is treacherous, she says, and he never kneels.
history isn’t written by victors
because only words are written
and—
but water remembers. water never changes. water that leaves your body in salt beads when you dance in rain, beautiful and vain, and fresh water you dance for in drought, dry and pained, is one and the same. the vicious sea remembers. he remembers every victim slain, every footstep in the sand, every ship sunk. he wishes he were drunk. water aches, water heals.
history isn’t written by victors
because only words are written
and words are set in stone,
not water.
history is a sea, and your mother is silly if she truly believes the sea doesn’t bend to anybody. the sea, in all his glory, grows weak in the knees every single time the vicious moon appears, shining down on us with a soft smile, forcing him to flood the shore where you stand unsure, to strip down and bear his flesh open, where thousands of sunken skeletons lurk, unwritten yet rotten. the sea is malleable, lovely, and weak.
history isn’t written by victors because history is drawn by power, drawn by a con artist who paints virtue with venom, a moon that can and will uncover hell or sink heaven at will while shining down at us with a soft smile. and as you stand on the sand, getting drunk on moonbeam, you’re nobody to my truth, a victor’s voice echoes, reminding you you were forged out from history, a mistake never meant to be, another skeleton on the floor of the ocean, ignoring your silly mother’s warnings as you swim towards the deep, cutting through a never-ending sea, still drunk, still real, seeking proof you exist in the shape of a memory set in stone. and then you’re lost in history, floating with your arms full of the proof you sought: words in stone. the shape of memory, unmalleable yet deformed. you exist, now.
history isn’t written by victors because history is drawn by power in the shape of a vicious circle and we refuse to live drafted, like quiet mistakes in the margins. history isn’t written by victors, and we have the memory of water: we will remember even when we’re hung to dry, even when we’re left behind, even when we’re forgotten, even when the treacherous moon drowns us in these margins, even when our bodies are unwritten and our sunken souls are rotten.
our memories and words will outlive the tides of the sea because they are set in stone. they don’t rot like skeletons or bow to the moon. we will still remember in the end of time, when the sea calms down and water isn’t life anymore, when the moon submits to the pull of the shore, falls and breaks and bares her core, let the truth spill over the stones. history isn’t written by victors and the moon won’t last forever. the moon is moody, lovely, and wicked.
“o, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
that monthly changes in her circled orb.”
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 12:22 AM UTC
i. most people don’t choose to be addicts, but most people could’ve prevented it from the very start. you aren’t like most people, though: your addiction was born with you and you blame your mother and her silken womb. your addiction grew with you and you blame your father and his silver spoon.
ii. you don’t realise you’re an addict because the blame is never on you. when you’re not blaming your mother and father and silken wombs and silver spoonfuls of attention, you blame mental illness and astrology and the world for not orbiting you and chaos and war and abuse.
iii. you realise you’re an addict when they take away your poison: when the needle getting ripped out of your flesh leaves behind an open wound and as the blood starts dripping, you swallow the pain and let it settle in the bottom of your stomach and start wondering, why does no one care? and you’re not okay, obviously, you’re bleeding, but you’re addicted to being seen and to be seen is worth every drop of blood that spills and — that’s when you realise you’re an addict. your stomach is empty and you starve for attention.
iv. you fight your addiction by hating it. you curse sickly wombs wishing you never were carried by one and you reject rusty spoons in hopes of undoing all the growing up you’ve done. you realise it’s a curse to be so controlled and submissive that you wind up blameless and faultless, so you own up to every mistake in the universe in hopes of owning yourself.
v. you lose yourself in your own head. your past only catches up to you during late nights and during times in which your inhibitions are lowered, but you simply reject it: you’re not addicted to attention anymore and you don’t bite your nails anymore and you don’t steal from small shops anymore. you don’t get good grades anymore or smile a lot anymore or have enough anger in you to set the world on fire anymore.
vi. most people don’t choose to be addicted but it’s the only thing you’ve ever known so when you replace one addiction with another, you realise what you’re doing, but it’s far too late and you don’t have the energy to be warm, let alone to bother anymore. so you do your thing: you curl up into a small ball and wish for the world not to see you anymore. you curl up more and more until you’re a tangled mess of skin and bones and there’s a knot in your throat that prevents the words from coming out. you curl up more and more and more until you’re too scared to let go.
Jan 24, 2024
Jan 24, 2024 at 6:54 PM UTC
talk to me like we’re all alone, like you’re a non-believer and i’m a cross hanging on a hospital wall, like you’re a child in a never-ending car ride and i’m the moon that’s been following you all night, like i’m the voice in your head when it’s dark and there’s nothing you can do, like we’re drunk on the kitchen floor, like we’re sitting side by side on a park bench in the afternoon, like you can’t stop the words from spilling out of you, like you want to even if you don’t know. talk to me like you have nothing to lose, and talk to me like the world is ending and you’re about to lose.
Jan 24, 2024
Jan 24, 2024 at 11:46 AM UTC
come on, little one, listen to me,
hear me out, carefully:
we are running out of time.
soon, the sun will show its face
so be quick, be swift, tie your shoelaces,
bring your heart, wear it on your sleeve,
and sneak outside, so we can leave.
i’ll wait until the sun starts to rise,
so be quick, be swift, save your goodbyes.
come on, little one, i want to ask:
have you ever been told,
well, it’s not the end of the world
i know the answer (your thoughts count too)
so be quick, be swift, let go of the past,
bring your true self, throw away the mask,
and stay alert, for your worst fear is here,
but remember? i’m here too,
so you have nothing to fear.
come on, little one, don’t you know?
the end of the world is here.
be quiet, be patient, hear me out, carefully:
there’s no time for stupid games
like exchanging stories and names;
i will be calling you little one
and you can call me
whoever you want me to be —
a friend, hopefully?
i know, little one, i know.
i don’t know you
and you don’t know me —
but come on, little one,
how is this of any relevancy?
isn’t it enough that i’m writing you
a letter in the form of poetry —
and that, in spite of everything,
you, little one, still happen to trust me?
(is it the moles on my skin,
or the shape of my eyes?
is it that i know the thoughts in your head
better than you know them,
or that i’m good at telling you
what you know and don’t want to hear?
is it that, for once, you are not
smarter than the closest adult to you,
or is it that you simply like poetry?)
come on, little one, time is running.
but so are we,
and as long as we keep running,
time will never catch up with us
— let alone catch us —
and i promise you, little one,
we will keep running,
and we will live for eternity, we will be free,
we will do as we please, and we will be happy.
come on, little one, listen to me:
i’m by your side even when you can’t see me,
and i’m proud of every single step
you’ve taken on your own, without me,
and if you doubt my words,
or if you realise you miss me,
then do as you are told:
look in the mirror and you’ll see me,
wearing your heart on my sleeve.
come on, little one.
come on, little me.
if only, if only, if only —
you knew how far you’ll reach,
or all the places you’ll go,
or all the things you’ll get to be,
you’d have never ever shed another tear,
or wasted another night without sleep,
or wished you could just fade away or disappeared.
come on, little one.
come on, little me,
i’m proud of you,
don’t you know?
so why won’t you be
as proud of me
and love yourself
the way you fell
in love with me?
come on, little one, don’t you see?
the end of the world is here,
and you will take advantage of it,
you will adapt, you will grow,
you will change, you will see,
you will make the death of the universe
a stepping stone for you.
come on, little one.
come on, little me,
be quick, be swift,
be you, forget me,
tie your shoelaces,
bring your heart,
pull your sleeves,
listen to my voice,
and sneak outside.
and do what you want to do.
i will be watching out for you.
and if you need me,
you know how to find me.
(i don’t think you will need me.
you will be fine on your own,
because, come on, little one,
did you forget who you will be?)
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 2:52 AM UTC
you’re just a boy, everyone says, but no one gets it like you do. be responsible, everyone says, but no one knows just how responsible you can be. don’t be cruel, everyone says, but they don’t know cruelty like you do, because you’re just a boy and boys use their fists more than their mouths, don’t they? don’t you? because fists (fists, whitened knuckles, dry skin, salty and sad) fists can hurt a lot, but mouths (mouths, bloodied red, bitten raw, bittersweet) mouths shatter hearts, ruin lives, push you down and tie you up, bare and defenceless, suffocating, rumours and confessions like bullets — and boys aren’t that cruel, are they? are you? (even if you are cruel, you are unarmed. you use your fists because you don’t know how to use your mouth, not like this, anyway.) you should know your way, everyone says, but you’re just a boy and all what boys do is get lost over and over again. you walk with your feathers puffed like a peacock, hips swaying like a courtesan, eyes staring ahead as if you’re too good to see humans, too holy for humanity, or as if there’s a place you’re aiming to reach, a destination dancing in your head. but in reality, you are lost. your confidence is an act, your puffed feathers are a mask, and you’re sitting in the lap of the gods pretending you’re right where you want to be when all you want to do — all you truly want, deep down — is to go back home, back to your mother’s lap, back to your sister’s arms, back to your father’s fists.
whatever.
you’re just a boy, and you act like you’re a king because you’re possessive and a natural leader; you want to be rich and have pretty things and be listened to. and you **** like a god because nothing satisfies you like being worshipped with sinful mouths and soft touches. and you fight like an animal because once you’re angry, you don’t hold back, and once you feel threatened, you jump with your paws out and your sharp whites bared, and you don’t give up until someone wraps their arms around your chest and pulls you back and holds you tight, until the wild drumming of your heart ceases into a soft, melodic rhythm, until the adrenaline dies down and the craze to spill blood turns into a crave to be held. (to be loved.) and you cry, but you don’t let anyone see you but yourself even though watching your tears fall only makes them fall harder, the same way young little boys sit behind behind their windows and watch the rain punch the invulnerable glass, and realise that it will only keep pouring down more and more as long as they keep their eyes on it. because the sky loves attention, so she rains more when you’re attentive and awaiting her to change, and you love attention, so you cry more at watching yourself in the mirror and at the mere thought of someone walking in and seeing you, in all your glory, a king and a god and a beast, lying on the ground in the middle of a pool of his own tears, his walls wrecked down and his doors wide open, hinges ripped off.
you’re just a boy. you want them to cut you some slack, but why is it harder for you than everyone else?
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 6:18 PM UTC
from jerusalem to damascus, and you haven’t figured it out yet. who am i?
put your hand on a book and repeat as i say, i will find myself.
it’s an oath. the cities have witnessed it.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
you are afraid to die in your sleep because you think you will forget how to breathe. it’s okay if you do; this mortal, dying body isn’t something familiar to you.
neither is the air you breathe, or the soil beneath your feet, or all what this body craves and all what it needs — but it’s okay, see, you’re not lost. not yet, anyway. you simply don’t know where you want to be.
you aren’t even sure if you do want to be.
but here you are.
here you stand, in all your glory, void of any connection to this planet and its people, and your ears ring. you listen. you don’t care, but you listen and you hear voices, coming from beneath your feet, and they’re calling out to you — they’re calling out your name, telling you where you need to be —
and it’s right here.
damascus. she’s a city built on seven and she has many names — the ones you call her are the ones your heart claims. jasmine blooms at night but thrives under the sun; shameless and proud, aggressive and loud. and you love it more than you’ve ever loved.
it’s damascus, and it’s a holysite come nightfall, at midnight. you follow your heart and wander around, and you forget not to breathe so you end up drowning in the jasmines — the yasmeen, and that’s when you realise it —
you are more alive than you have ever been, standing right there, in all your glory, with the yasmeen framing the old streets and glowing in the moonbeam. you are more alive than you have ever been.
you try not to breathe, but it’s too late, and your fear of dying in your sleep is replaced.
a newfound fear of living forever swims in your head, haunting your thoughts like a shark with its eyes on a prey. you’re afraid of living forever. it’s okay if you do; you know that the world will someday turn gray, you know that it will all fade away, but you won’t be alone.
the voices calling out to you — your ancestors, kings and queens, artists and their muses, the ones who wrote history and the victims of the margins, the saints and the sinners and the ones who got away with their sins — their voices will always be there, echoing in the air you breathe, calling out your name from the soil beneath your feet.
they will always be there, and so will this city — damascus, the city with an infinite faces and endless names. the city, the beloved of fate, the sister of destiny.
and if she were not fate’s beloved, how do you explain her immortality? and if she were not the sister of destiny, how do you explain the fact that you ended up here, with all your mortal, dying glory?
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
to be damascene,
you cease to exist in dimashq
you start living behind the scene.
you fall in love with a mask
and an infinite faces underneath.
you learn her names without needing to ask
and you carve them onto your heart,
letter by letter, one after the other.
to be damascene,
you cease to remember what love and hate mean.
you start loving the rain and the scathing heat,
you start hating the brick walls and the old streets.
you fall in love with yasmeen
and imagine him tattooed on your skin;
little white flowers drawn in black ink,
so fragile yet so keen.
to be damascene,
you start loving from the bottom of your heart
which desires the unspeakable,
the good, the bad, the colourful, and the gray
and you start hating from the depth of your eyes,
which have seen far too much
to let you turn your head away
and act like everything is okay.
to be damascene,
you cease to love unless it’s a sin,
you let go of the songs and the notes,
and you start to sing along
with birds and bricks and bullets.
you treasure memories over lives,
and you let go of the present,
all you do is reminisce.
to be damascene,
your words cease to make sense
as you mourn the present tense,
and you worry about the jasmines
and the city you grew up praising and cursing,
but you remain painfully aware
despite all the senseless words no longer say,
and all the things you cease to be —
to be damascene
is to belong to a city unlike any other;
an immortal city with an undying soul.
and if your body falls
the way jasmines do,
and if your home falls
the way bullets do,
and if your world falls
the way lovers do,
she will still be there:
a new world will rise
and she will be there still,
right in the center.
she will have a new name
but her children will rarely use it.
she will live a new chapter
and her children will be writing it.
to be damascene, is to believe in it.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 5:42 PM UTC
i stand here
and there’s nothing i crave more
than to run away and disappear,
nothing, but the secret spinning inside me.
i stand here
and these voices are all i hear,
and they’re calling out to me,
screaming of fate, screaming of destiny.
i stand here
and the blood of ten thousand years
spills from my body onto my streets
spreads like the ink i spilt on my sheets
(and i’m rooted in my place,
sinking in my blood, like a tree,
i stand here, unmoving yet free
as if freedom meant what it means.
the voices won’t let me go,
the voices won’t let me be)
i stand here
and i’m not a patriot or a lover, no,
but beneath my feet,
lie more empires than i’ll ever know
or count or amount to.
i stand here
and here i will always be.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 5:39 PM UTC